


Where He Is

by elaboratelunatic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Lavellan is a serious sleepyhead, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaboratelunatic/pseuds/elaboratelunatic
Summary: Dorian Pavus is the one person in Skyhold - maybe in all of Thedas - who Samran Lavellan really feels comfortable around. Perhaps a little too much so.Or Samran finds himself falling asleep around Dorian a lot. Dorian finds it endearing.





	1. The First Doze

**Author's Note:**

> No beta readers we die like men.
> 
> I'd like to add more chapters to this, if anyone is interested??

Samran had always had a natural talent for avoiding things he didn't want to deal with.

Back with his clan it had been easy. Whenever he had caught wind of someone wanting attention he wasn't interested in giving, he could vanish into forest or wilderness – wherever the clan found itself at a given time – and wait until whoever it was gave up on the search. Gave up on bothering him. He never went far in case the clan came under attack, and he never shirked his responsibilities as a hunter, but he'd had privacy when he wanted it.

It was different in Skyhold. 

“Wherever I am is home enough for me” he had said to Seeker Pentaghast, and it was as true now as it had been then. But he didn't care for Skyhold. It was too big, too absolutely massive, like an entire town all by itself – and yet at the same time – with it's high stone walls and grand halls full of grand people Samran didn't know but was supposed to take the time to appease and impress – he had never felt so trapped. 

There was nowhere to hide here. It didn't matter where he skulked off to, or what he was trying to avoid; Leliana's people were absolutely everywhere, from the stables to Cole's attic in the tavern to the depths of the prison, and the traitors never hesitated to report to Sister Nightingale when they spotted him dodging her or Cullen or Josephine.

Even when Samran had the title of Inquisitor, the agents respected Leliana more than they did him.

Maybe feared was the more appropriate word.

Samran couldn't really blame them for that.

Still. It was irksome.

His last resort, to which he had resigned himself now, was to shut himself in his quarters and bolt the door. It was hardly the most elegant or subtle method of avoidance, since absolutely everyone knew exactly where he was – the Spymaster's agents could see him easily up here, for a while he had seen Josephine on the ramparts below his balcony, obviously fretting over some nonsense or other but too dignified to yell at him before she had given up and left, and Sera had entertained herself for a while shooting arrows with messages at him from the roof of the tavern – but he suspected it would be some time before anyone dared to even consider using the master key Leliana kept on her person to get into the room.

(The Lord Seeker had accused Seeker Pentaghast of raising Samran as a puppet, but Samran occasionally had cause to wonder if that wasn't more Leliana's style than it was the Seeker's)

Disregarding the simplicity and perhaps somewhat childish nature of his actions, Samran stayed in his room in solitude for the better part of an hour. He sat out on the balcony so he wouldn't even hear if someone tried knocking on the door. Perched on the cold stone ledge, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other foot light on the floor, hands loose in his lap. The sun was beginning its descent between two mountain peaks, casting shadows pierced with gentle rays of golden light.

The wind was high out here, tossing the loose locks of hair at his forehead and the back of his neck. It was cold, but he didn't go in for his coat. He'd been in the South long enough to get used to the cold – constant and miserable though it was.

He watched the light filtering through the mountains and clouds and knew it would be time to leave Skyhold again soon. Before he got well and truly sick of the place. He just didn't know where he would go yet. He couldn't risk a visit to the war table to plan it out; not when he'd have to pass through Josephine's office to get to it.

No. He'd settle for making hypothetical plans in his head, for now.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The very, very familiar voice cut into his thoughts before they could fully form.

Samran slowly blinked himself back to reality and let out an unsteady exhale. He turned his head.

There was Dorian, lounging lazily against the open door and wearing that little smirk he always wore. The one that just screamed well? Aren't you impressed?

Samran couldn't bring himself to be especially surprised.

“I'd apologize for bothering you,” Dorian continued, glancing at his fingernails and pulling a dissatisfied face. “But you never apologize for pestering me in the library and disrupting my reading, so.”

Samran looked back at the sky and didn't bother being offended. He knew Dorian didn't actually oppose his presence in the library. All they ever did was read together or talk, and if there was one thing Samran knew as absolute fact, it was that Dorian loved the sound of his own voice.

He wasn't alone in that.

“You're not bothering me,” Samran said, perhaps a little belatedly.

“Aren't you wondering how I got in here?”

“I like to imagine it was through the door.”

“Ah, yes, the locked door. But how in the Makers name did I get it open?”

Samran closed his eyes and found he had to actively bite back a smile. Dorian really was going to make him guess.

“It's possible you asked Varric to pick the lock for you.”

“Possible,” Dorian agreed. “But, sadly, wrong. Well... maybe I did ask, and he was too terrified of the Dread Inquisitor to actually do it.”

“Hm. Well, I'm sure it wasn't Sera. She's been busy.” He gestured to the many arrows scattered across the balcony. A rolled scrap of parchment was tied to each one with a bit of red fabric.

“Is that what those are about?” Dorian picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. “You haven't read the messages?”

“I would, but I'm certain they're all filthy.”

“Fair enough.” Dorian slipped the note free and unrolled it. “You still have two guesses,” he reminded as he scanned the paper.

Samran inhaled and let it out slowly, not quite a sigh. He watched Dorian's eyebrows arch at whatever he was reading.

“I don't suppose it was Leliana?”

“If she were to force your door open, it would not be for me, I assure you. If anything it would be for your Ambassador Montilyet, who has been quite flustered looking for you.” He picked up another arrow, unrolled another note.

“Did Seeker Pentaghast finally kick the door down?”

Dorian laughed. Samran wasn't sure if it was at him or at the parchment.

“No – I don't think she's quite that frustrated yet.”

“Yet,” Samran agreed. Because while Seeker Pentaghast had been very professional, their relationship thus far civil, they didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on many things. 

Samran was still shocked that she had deigned to make him Inquisitor at all.

“Shall I tell you?” Dorian asked, and carried on before he could answer. “It was Cole.”

Samran looked at him fully. “Cole?”

Dorian tossed something to him.

Samran caught the key to his quarters.

“He brought me that.” Dorian chose another note. “I... think he was concerned for you? Honestly I find it a little difficult to follow when he rambles sometimes, but 'concern' seemed to be the general mood.”

Samran rolled the key in his hand and didn't quite know what to think. He didn't know why Cole would be concerned for him – they hadn't spoken much since coming to Skyhold, though that was mostly because the peculiar young man often made himself difficult to find. Vivienne had wildly disapproved of letting him have the run of the place, but Samran had seen the good Cole was doing for his people – his Inquisition – and he didn't regret his decision. 

He was especially grateful that Cold had taken his concern and the key to his room to Dorian and not, say, a certain ambassador.

He glanced toward the mage – reading yet another note – and thought he might have to find some way to thank Cole.

“Some of these are rather amusing,” Dorian said. “This one is a dirty limerick I believe Sera wrote herself. It's about bees.”

“Will you read it to me?”

“I was so hoping you would ask. Oh – but first...”

Samran turned to set both feet on the floor as Dorian disappeared back into his bedroom. He returned barely a moment later, bearing a tinted green bottle of wine.

“Fereldan wine?” Samran glanced from the bottle to the man, an eyebrow raised. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Dorian laughed. “Fereldan wine? Please. You wouldn't catch me drinking that backwater swill if I was dying of thirst in the desert and Andraste herself was passing out samples. No, this -” He held out the bottle so Samran could read the label which, the Dalish realized, was all in Tevene “- this is Tevinter's finest. For when you want to drink, but don't want to fear for your life with every second glass.”

Samran gave him a skeptical look. Dorian met his stare, then sighed.

“No, it is not made with blood magic.”

“Fine.” Samran stood, satisfied with the little joke. “But if we're doing this, we may as well be comfortable.”

“You'll hear no argument from me.” Dorian's voice followed Samran inside. Samran set his key on the desk, then went to the bed and pulled at the quilt, tugging the corners from the mattress and folding it into a haphazard square.

One thing he had to admit he liked about human culture; thick, soft blankets.

“That's Orlesian cotton,” Dorian pointed out when he carried it outside. “Probably stuffed with dove feathers and sewn with actual gold. Do you have any idea how much it's worth?”

“No,” Samran said, and spread it across a section of the floor. Dorian had already collected the arrows so he sat down, leaning his back against the wall, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

Dorian sat beside him and handed him the bottle while he set about unrolling all of the notes, smoothing them across his lap.

“Where did you get this?” Samran asked, carefully prying out the cork. “It must have been expensive.”

“I imagine it was, for someone,” Dorian said with a shrug. “My mother sent it, along with a number of other little gifts. A peace offering after the nonsense with my father, I suppose.”

“I'm surprised you didn't send it back.”

“I admit, the thought occurred to me. Purely for the sake of pettiness, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But then I thought, why waste good wine? And here we are.”

Samran finally freed the cork and held out the bottle. Dorian shook his head. 

“You first. I insist.”

“Ah.” Samran peered into the bottle. “I'm your food taster now. I accept my duties with pride and only mild trepidation.”

“Oh for – give it here.”

Dorian took the wine and drank. Samran pretended he wasn't watching like a hawk.

Dorian swallowed, and so did Samran.

“There, see? It's perfectly safe.”

“You're a true hero.”

“Can I read a dirty bee-related limerick now?”

Samran took a sip from the bottle. The wine was dry and tasted of some spice he couldn't identify and a little bit like chocolate. He made himself comfortable, his shoulder just barely touching Dorian's, and gestured vaguely with his free hand.

“Please.”

The time went by. The sun set on the two of them, sharing wine and taking turns reading Sera's dirty jokes and poetry, or looking over her drawings together. Most of those were dirty too, but some were interesting. Dorian was particularly amused by a drawing of a heap of nugs, vaguely shaped like Varric. Samran decided to himself that his favorite was a sketch of Seeker Pentaghast punching a bear in the face and looking absolutely furious about it.

Dorian cried with laughter when Samran took his turns reading. Neither of them could decide whether it was at the material itself, or at Samran's deadpan, disinterested delivery.

Neither of them meant to fall asleep.

At least, Samran certainly hadn't. 

But when the moon rose and the stars began to shine in earnest, it was to find the pair of them half-sitting, half-laying against each other, covered in scraps of parchment, an almost-empty bottle of wine between them, and Samran's head on Dorian's shoulder.


	2. Gently Crossing Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samran doesn't really like the market in Redcliffe - but he likes Dorian, so he'll put up with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for putting up with my need to puke Pavellan fluff all over my computer and then force it upon you kind people

“Dorian,” Samran said slowly, rubbing a hand across his forehead as he watched the mage. “When you asked me to come here I assumed it was for a specific purpose.”

Dorian looked up from his perusal of the apparently random market stall he had come across. “And?”

“I'm getting the impression that my assumption was very incorrect.”

Dorian was already covered in things Samran couldn't imagine he actually intended to buy; a heavy velvet shawl that, while probably very warm, was an unfortunate shade of dead-grass green was wrapped around his shoulders; a sack of odd, tiny, red potatoes and a live, impassive chicken were tucked under his arm; a massive feathered hat was on his head, cocked at an odd angle. 

“I don't know what in the world would give you that idea,” Dorian said unabashedly, and glanced back at the collection of fabrics on display in front of him.

The Redcliffe market was blossoming with business, now that the rebel mages were safely at Skyhold and out of the way of the people who actually lived in the village. There were still plenty of people at the Crossroads not too far away, which had become a bustling trade hub in its own right, still occupied by plenty of refugees who hadn't been able to return home yet. 

It was a mystery, why Dorian had insisted on coming all the way to Redcliffe instead of going to the much-closer-to-camp Crossroads. Samran was beginning to suspect he only wanted to make a public spectacle of himself in the busiest place possible. 

Not that anyone was really paying him much attention.

“I did have something specific in mind when we came here...” Dorian idly scanned the market, fingers trailing over patches of colored fabric. “I just can't seem to find – oh!”  
Abruptly he pulled back, dumping his armful of goods on the nearest stall, and brushed past Samran, touching his elbow lightly on the way to urge him to follow. Samran watched him dash across the market toward a stall loaded with books, and trailed after him.

The human merchant regarded the pair of them – a mage and a Dalish elf – with bald suspicion, but Dorian paid her no mind as he looked through her collection.

“What do you suppose are the chances I'll find a copy of Ellithan's Sparrow?” he asked, directing the question toward Samran and not the merchant.

“I don't know what that is.”

“Well, it's a song – I heard Leliana singing it but didn't want her to know I'd been listening so I had to ask Maryden – from a play adapted from a popular Orlesian book.”

“And you're hoping to find a work of Orlesian fiction in Redcliffe?” Samran picked the first book off a stack and glanced over the cover without interest. “Would you not be better off looking in... I don't know. Orlais?”

“Well, naturally,” Dorian scoffed. “But we're not in Orlais, so I'm making do with what's available.” He sighed. “However little that may be.”

“Are you blighters going to buy something or not?” the merchant interrupted, scowling at the both of them. “I don't have all day.”

“Yes, yes...”

Samran watched the market while Dorian browsed. The day was getting on and the crowds were only just beginning to thin. Some of the merchants were packing up their wares while others resolutely kept their stalls open, holding out for the late shoppers.

Occasionally Dorian commented to him when he found something interesting, to the increasing visible frustration of the merchant, who was very obviously eager to be rid of them. Finally, after so much time had passed Samran was suspecting Dorian was dawdling on purpose to rile the woman up, he finished his shopping and paid for the three books he tucked into his pack. None of them, Samran noticed, were Ellithan's Sparrow, but Dorian didn't appear put off by the loss.

“You seem tired,” he commented as they headed for the village gates, slowly leaving the crowds behind. “I'm sorry I kept us here so long.”

“No, you aren't,” Samran replied easily, earning a muted laugh. “And I'm not tired.”

He was tired.

It had been a long day, spent scouring what felt like every inch of the Hinterlands in search of red lyrium deposits or the grave of an elven woman for her grieving husband, so some idiots' missing ram – and Samran didn't generally like shopping even without having dealt with all of that nonsense first.

Dorian had asked him to come and so he had come, because spending time with Dorian, regardless of the context or the state of his mood, was immeasurably better than spending time without him. But the sun was coming down and the nighttime cold settling in, and his feet were starting to drag in the dirt whether he wanted them to or not, and more than anything he was looking forward to getting back to his tent and going to bed.

Serendipity came to them in the form of a traders' wagon just outside Redcliffe, preparing to journey to the Crossroads with supplies for the refugees still camped there. Samran gladly paid for passage, and he and Dorian sat on the back as the wagon began its' lazy trek.

Dorian graciously didn't comment on the dramatic reveal of Samran's lie. He chose instead to pull out one of the books he had just purchased, settling in to read.

Samran didn't waste time with pretense. He was too tired. He leaned against Dorian's arm, earning a questioning glance – which he ignored, shifting to make himself comfortable and resting his cheek against Dorian's shoulder, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

Dorian was still for a moment. His thumb brushed uncertainly against the edge of his book. Samran knew he wasn't exactly comfortable with public displays of affection – he could barely bring himself to do anything in the relative privacy of Skyhold's library – not out of concern for himself, but for Samran. It wouldn't be good for the Inquisitor to be seen cozying up to the “Tevinter Mage” - as Dorian liked to insist.

Samran sometimes wished he could be bothered to care about his own reputation as much as Dorian did.

But he didn't.

No one out here would know who he was on sight, and even if they did – he cared more about making certain everyone knew Dorian was his, than he did about either of their reputations.

Still – Dorian's comfort was more important than Samran's possessiveness. 

He had been staring at the same page of the book for several minutes.

Samran tilted his head a little so he could look up at the mage.

“All right?” he asked, soft and vague, to spare Dorian the awkwardness of outright rejection, if that was what he wanted.

But Dorian didn't reject him.

He shifted slightly into a more comfortable position for the both of them, adjusted his hold on his book, and for a brief moment very gently pressed his cheek to the top of Samran's head.

“All right,” he confirmed, just as soft. And without asking, or being asked, he began to read aloud.

Samran didn't pay any attention to the story. He closed his eyes and was distracted by the smooth, warm lull of Dorian's voice, and the scent of honey and vanilla that somehow perpetually clung to his clothes.

It wasn't long before the gentle rolling of the wagon eased him to sleep.


	3. Slow and Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Palace is exhausting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this nonsense with me.
> 
> If anyone is interested, here are some shots of Samran in the game: http://zevranslovenoodle.tumblr.com/private/159644438722/tumblr_ooijdtd4Tj1rp4uvh
> 
> On a similar note, feel free to talk to me on tumblr!

The Masquerade in Halamshiral had gone about as well as Samran had expected.

Which was to say it had been an absolute disaster.

For his nerves, at least.

For the sake of Orlais, he supposed, everything was just right. Empress Celene was alive, and so was the attempted assassin, by the fickle grace of some higher power Samran was hesitant to identify. It was only with frequent and sometimes desperate advice from Josephine had he been able to maintain enough of the courts' favor to confront Duchess Florianne without making a total ass of himself. He hadn't honestly expected anyone to believe his claims – these sorts of things always led to bloodshed, he'd been certain – but no one had tried to deny him, and the Inquisition had captured Florianne without fuss.

The people here made his skin crawl, every single one of them, but at least they could see sense when it was shoved down their throats.

Conferencing with the three hopefuls for the Imperial Throne had been an entirely different animal, one Samran had not at all been prepared to tolerate.

These people made him sick to his stomach.

Real people were fighting and dying in a pointless civil war while they sat around and bickered through facetious politeness like passive-aggressive children.

Real people were being killed by demons puked out of Fade Rifts all over the continent while they danced around politics and forced Samran to hold their hands so they wouldn't murder each other and plunge all of Southern Thedas into irreparable chaos.

More than once did Samran find himself tempted to depose all three of them and put someone more reasonable in charge.

Maybe one of Dennet's horses.

But, finally, they were finished. It had taken the entire night and Samran had very nearly resorted to smacking his head into a wall in the hopes of that helping him to understand absolutely any of this mess, but things were as settled as they were ever going to be.

Gaspard had been exiled. Celene and Briala had put aside whatever personal drama had vexed them so and had, more or less, reconciled.

As long as Orlais was stable and he had the forces he needed to deal with Corypheous, Samran didn't really care.

He was exhausted. One night among the nobility was more draining and tense than en entire week spent battling demons or Red Templars.

At least they didn't play nice to your face before tearing you apart.

The sun was staring to rise when Dorian found him on the balcony. He was pleased with how the evening had turned out – pleased enough to ask Samran to dance, even though they were in a literal palace full of people who were bound to have any number of opinions, should they see.

And they would see.

But Samran didn't care, and for once, neither did Dorian.

“I'd love to,” he said, and took the offered hand. It didn't show on his face, but he was delighted; he hadn't really expected Dorian to ask, even after Samran had spent the evening begging him for a dance.

Well.

Begging with his eyes, maybe.

Samran didn't beg out loud for anything.

He curled his fingers around the side of Dorian's shoulder and let himself be drawn in by the hand on the small of his back.

Music still bled from the ballroom, slow and steady. Samran wasn't really surprised that there were still people dancing in there; Leliana had told him these parties sometimes ran for days at a time. Servants and members of the band would sleep in shifts so the nobles could run themselves ragged as long as they pleased.

He had no intention of staying _that_ long. Already he found himself eager to return to Skyhold and get away from all this incomprehensible nonsense.

But he rested his chin on Dorian's shoulder, listening with a small smile to his less-than-flattering opinions on this guest or that, and his whispered retellings of the many subtle – but no less troublesome (for someone else, he only found them amusing) – pranks with which Sera had entertained herself throughout the course of the evening.

Maybe the party could go on a little while longer.

 

 

 

“Samran?”

Concern had blossomed the moment his Inquisitor had nestled so comfortably against his chest, but Dorian had brushed it off and solved the problem before it fully established itself by maintaining conversation.

Or... _attempted_ to solve the problem.

The conversation had been partially one-sided from the start. Dorian had told him about Sera's antics and Blackwall's general discomfort and his own musings regarding how many marriage proposals poor Cullen was likely to receive in the coming weeks, and for the most part Samran had only laughed a little or hummed in reply.

(“He will get none,” he had said of Cullen's hypothetical future invitations, surprisingly passionate. “I will see that Leliana stops them all.”)

(Dorian did love the peculiar protective streak that broke Samran's otherwise general stoicism.)

Slowly his increasingly noncommittal responses had stopped entirely.

So too had the gentle swaying, only ever loosely in time to the music.

Still, Dorian didn't want to believe it. He tilted his head to look at him.

Surely he hadn't -

“You must be – _really_?”

He'd fallen asleep.

Standing on his feet, grip still firm on Dorian's arm.

But his eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, and _he was asleep._

Dorian sighed an exasperated swear. Typical. Samran had spent the entire evening glancing at him across the crowded ballroom, giving him eyes that he probably didn't realize were as hopeful as they were when they wandered toward the dance floor and back at Dorian. Wasn't it just the way of things that as soon as they'd gotten a moment of privacy his bizarre narcolepsy kicked in.

He had already been baffled by the Inquisitor's apparent ability to fall asleep absolutely anywhere. Riding in wagons and a boat on a lake were understandable, but he made a habit of dozing off in the library, and once in the tavern the one time he'd agreed to join Dorian for a drink. The oddest incident had been when he'd gone to sleep while he and Dorian had been sharing a horse.

But now...

This was just silly.

The bewilderment was almost overwhelming, but there was something else. Something small in the pit of his stomach that settled and ate the bemusement away.

Dorian adjusted his hold, easing Samran's hand down to his side and securing the elf against him with both arms. He sighed again, his breath tussling the wisps of hair that had worked free from Samran's bun, and quietly watched him sleep.

The something small was a warm blossom in his chest, slow and steady, as always, and prevented him from trying to rouse Samran or seek the attention of one of his advisers.

Someone was bound to come looking for him soon enough.

For just a little while, Dorian was content to let him rest.

 


	4. A Rainy Night in Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming home is a pretty new experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took me absolutely forever. 
> 
> This will be the last chapter of Where He Is. 
> 
> It started out as some silly nonsense and that is how it shall end. 
> 
> I maaaaaay be planning a slightly more serious fic, also starring Samran and Dorian, so... keep an eye out for that?? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, and all of the support I've gotten! 
> 
> Please feel free to hmu on tumblr I like attention.
> 
> zevranslovenoodle.tumblr.com

Samran was tired, cold and miserable, and when the gates of Skyhold finally came into view he was happier to see them than he ever had been.

 

The journey from the Hissing Wastes had been an absolute nightmare. Red Templars and overconfident bandits at every turn, wolves and demons lurking everywhere, and a constant, petulant drizzle that had started just outside of Val Royeaux and had inexplicably followed them all the way across Orlais and into the Frostbacks.

 

Ordinarily Samran liked rain, but this was a bit much.

 

He had been careful to hide his drowned spirits from his companions. It wasn't easy. The cold and the sound of rain pattering against his tent shouldn't have been enough to keep him awake, but sleep had been elusive over the past few weeks, even after travel and battle should have thoroughly worn him out. It didn't help that Sera found it perfectly acceptable to rage loudly at the weather, and it was so, so tempting to join her. But Cassandra and Vivienne didn't complain, and neither did any of his scouts. So neither would he.

 

Nor did he bother to hide his relief when they were finally at Skyhold, however.

 

He wordlessly parted ways with his companions as soon as they reached the gates. Vivienne ascended to her room, Sera trudged across the muddiest path she could find to the tavern, and Cassandra made her way to the barracks, presumably each to find a change of clothes and perhaps some hot food before bed.

 

Samran helped Horsemaster Dennet bring the horses to the stable, the man yawning into the sleeves of his coat. It was well past midnight and still raining. Dennet and his stable boy tended to the horses while Samran took care of his dracolisk, Vana, of whom both Dennet and the stable boy were too afraid to go near. Samran didn't understand their fear in the slightest – Vana was the gentlest creature he'd ever known (aside from Cole, perhaps) – but she favored him over anyone else anyway, so it suited him to care for her.

 

He washed the mud from her leathery hide, fed and watered her, and took a few moments to simply be with her. She liked to stare straight into his eyes, her forehead a scant inch or two from his, breaths huffing and heavy. He let her, rubbing her neck and jaw until she was satisfied, and then left her be to rest.

 

Blackwall was still awake in the stable, as evidenced by the lantern in the window casting a dull glow across the yard. Samran stuck to the shadows out of habit, heading briskly for the stairs. The tavern was bright but the courtyard was quiet save for the rush of rain. He couldn't even hear Maryden singing.

 

The silence got to him, suddenly.

 

He stopped on the landing halfway up the stairs and took a look around. His breath fanned in the chilly air and he had to blink rain water from his eyes.

 

Skyhold was always quieter at night. That seemed to be the standard for settlements of any size, he had noticed, as opposed to the constant soothing chaos of the wilderness, where perfect silence usually meant something was wrong. He had started to get used to the nighttime quiet here, but this was different. This felt like an entirely different world.

 

It looked as abandoned as the day Solas had brought them here.

 

But it wasn't, of course.

 

The more he looked, the more signs of life he could pick out through the blurry haze of rain.

 

A sentry keeping her watch atop the battlements.

 

Dull shadows against the windows in the mages tower.

 

Two hooded children playing in puddles in the shadows behind the tavern, running off when someone opened a door to let a dog out.

 

Samran wasn't incredibly eager to explore why he was so comforted. He chose instead to take the relief at the confirmation that his Inquisition hadn't up and vanished while he'd been away for what it was, and continued inside.

 

He peeled off his coat and gloves in the doorway and rolled them up under his arm, and carried his boots to avoid tracking water across the hall carpet. It was empty this time of night but the torches on the walls were lit, which meant there were still servants milling about, anticipating his return and waiting to see if he would need anything.

 

Samran didn't call for any of them. He picked his silent, barefoot way to his quarters and shut himself up in his solitude.

 

That wasn't what he wanted.

 

But he supposed he needed to get out of his wet clothes.

 

His room was already lit by a handful of strategically-placed candles. There was a tray of bread and cheese waiting for him on his desk, alongside a two-inch-thick stack of letters in envelopes that varied wildly in length and color. Samran ignored those.

 

He undressed and hung up his clothes to dry with his gloves and coat. He retrieved a pair of soft gray pajamas from the closet, eating bits of bread and cheese – how the cooks had gotten hold of halla-milk cheese he couldn't guess, but he made a mental note to extend to them his appreciation – between stages of dressing himself. While he untied his hair and absently shook out the wet length, he stared at his bed with contempt he hoped was so blatant that even it, an inanimate object, would recognize the sentiment for what it was.

 

The bed was too big.

 

It had always been too big, since his first day here. Even in his state of exhaustion it didn't look at all inviting.

 

It looked cold. And empty. And too damn big.

 

Before coming to Skyhold – before meeting a certain Tevinter mage, perhaps – none of those things would have bothered him. But now he was certain he wouldn't be able to sleep here on his own.

 

He stuffed the rest of the bread and cheese into his mouth and put out all of his candles except one. Pulling his quilt off the bed and around his shoulders, he took up the last candle and left the room.

 

Samran didn't know if anyone ever saw him out on his semi-frequent midnight excursions. If the servants gossiped about seeing the Inquisitor bundled up and sneaking around his own castle like a child breaking curfew, he never heard about it. He didn't care one way or the other, but for the sake of discretion he stayed out of the open as he padded across the hall on silent feet and headed downstairs to the dormitories under the library. He didn't know what the previous owners had done with this space, but the Inquisition used it as housing for the recruited mages and the library staff.

 

Dorian had chosen to take residence here. Samran had been down to visit frequently enough that he knew exactly which door he needed.

 

He thought about knocking, but it was late and if Dorian was sleeping he didn't want to wake him up with too much noise.

 

No light came from under the door.

 

Samran pressed his ear to the wood and didn't hear anything. He tested the handle and eased the door open on silent hinges.

 

His candlelight poured into the dark room. There wasn't much to see by way of furniture or decoration, but Samran wouldn't have noticed any of it anyway. His attention zeroed in immediately on the peaceful figure on the bed.

 

He slipped into the room and carefully closed the door behind him. Dorian didn't stir as he approached and set his candle on the bedside table. Samran peeled the blanket down and climbed into bed, bunching his quilt down around where his feet would be. Keeping a cautious eye on the unresponsive mage, Samran blew out the candle and settled down in the dark.

 

It was almost silent down here. Even during the day sound didn't travel well. If Samran listened carefully he thought he could hear the distant rush of the river that ran under Skyhold, but it was so vague and muffled that he wasn't really sure he wasn't just imagining it.

 

After only a few minutes of quiet, however, he was definitely sure he heard a sigh from somewhere to his left.

 

Dorian shifted his position, his movements groggy and slow. The bed dipped a little with his motions. Dorian tried to adjust his blanket and Samran held on, gently resisting, wondering just how awake the mage was.

 

Not very, it seemed at first. There was no noticeable response at all.

 

Then Dorian turned over and gave a small, sleep-warmed 'hmm...', and Samran's disappointed acceptance disappeared.

 

Samran shifted slowly onto his side and reached out across the space between them. His fingertips found the end of Dorian's nose and Dorian huffed a short laugh.

 

“There you are, amatus,” he hummed as Samrans fingers moved on to brush across his cheek. “Where've you been? Besides on my mind.”  
His voice was thick with drowsiness, words slightly slurred, and aside from reaching to find and hold Samrans wrist with fumbling fingers, he didn't move. Samran closed the gap, spreading one hand across Dorian's shoulder blade and resting his chin his shoulder.

 

“Hm,” he said. “Have you missed me?”

 

Dorian turned over onto his side and tugged until Samran buried himself against his bare chest. He blearily nuzzled Samrans cheek and sighed with contentment.

 

“Not really.”

 

Samran closed his eyes to hide their rolling – not that Dorian would have seen in the dark – but Dorian felt him smile and chuckled drowsily.

 

A comfortable silence settled. Samran traced idle circles on Dorians back with the tip of one finger while Dorian curled his fingers through Samrans still-damp hair. But before too long Dorians breathing evened out against his forehead, and Samran thought he'd fallen back to sleep. Tangled up in a mess of limbs and blankets, more relaxed than he'd been since leaving this place, Samran didn't really mind.

 

Before he could drift off, himself, however, Dorian spoke again.

 

“Samran,” he murmured, “do you ever think about having children?”

 

Samran blinked his eyes open.

 

“With me,” Dorian specified.

 

“You realize we'd have to have sex first,” Samran drawled. Dorian hummed.

 

“You're the one who wanted to take it slow,” he sighed. Samran waited a moment, but the copper didn't seem to drop.

 

“Well,” he said slowly, “if you really want to try and get me pregnant, I suppose I'm willing. But I'll admit, I'm not crazy about the idea of sacrificing my figure.”

 

A moment passed in silence, and Dorian kicked his shin under the blanket.

 

“I meant _adopting_ children, you ass.”

 

“Oh.” Samran closed his eyes again and pressed his nose against Dorians collarbone. “No, I haven't thought about that.”

 

“I have,” Dorian didn't mind admitting, perhaps because he wasn't fully awake. He never seemed to like talking about the future or making plans. Samran didn't mind the change, even if the subject matter was something not exactly within his immediate range of interest. He hugged him around the ribs, tucked his head under Dorians chin, and hummed at him to continue.

 

“I'd like a girl, I think,” he said with sleepy confidence. “Doesn't matter if she's a mage or an elf or... whatever shapes children come in. She would be named Silva, of course. That's the whole point.”

 

Samran considered the name and found he rather liked it.

 

“After your mother?” he wondered. Dorian snorted.

 

“No. Silva was my childhood cat.”

 

Samran couldn't help a startled laugh.

 

“What?” Dorian protested, his attempt at indignation hampered by his self-satisfaction. “Silva was a wonderful cat.”

 

_Creators have mercy on me,_ Samran thought, exasperated and amused. _I love him._

 

“Go to sleep, Dorian,” he said, and leaned up to kiss him before tangling himself close again.

 

“Goodnight, amatus,” Dorian murmured, hugging him tight. “Welcome home.”

 

 

_“Wherever I am is home enough for me”_ he had said to Seeker Pentaghast. That had been some time ago, and it wasn't entirely true anymore.

 

Where he happened to find himself didn't matter.

 

As long as Dorian was there, Samran was home.

 


End file.
